Meaningless Incidents
by NairobiWonders
Summary: The rules to Sherlock and Watson's relationship are simple but not always followed. These are a series of not necessarily related episodes, occurrences they most likely would deny were you to ask them about it. Fluffy Joanlock, very little angst and no plot whatsoever. Last chapter! Thank you for reading and commenting!
1. Chapter 1

Boundaries between Watson and Holmes are few. They do have two unspoken rules: 1) Feelings for each other are not verbalized, not to each other and never to anyone else. 2) Touch is only utilitarian. Sherlock may shake her awake. Watson may tend to his wounds. Physical demonstrations of affection in private and especially in public are forbidden.

Holmes and Watson follow the rules, but anomalies have occurred during their time together. Meaningless little incidents that they never discuss. These are boxed up tightly, stored out of sight and any emotional residue quickly swept away.

Box #1 - The Small Incident in the Kitchen

The long dismal case from the prior week drags itself into the brownstone's kitchen, waiting for Holmes and Watson to attend to it. Grey morning light finds Sherlock, groggy and rumpled, scrambling eggs in a large bowl set on the counter. He can feel winter beginning to seep up through the bare floor. Watson, yawning, shuffles in, warm from sleep, deep in her old red sweater, hair in disarray. They mumble their "mornings," and she reaches up and in front of him to get her mug from the cabinet. He inexplicably moves towards her rather than away. Her shoulder brushes his arm as she brings the cup down. They stand there, leaning into each other, avoiding eye contact, both relishing the warmth of proximity, the way their heads are almost touching but not quite, the only sound, the whisper of their breathing. The moment lasts for a few seconds but is enough to bring them comfort: they are here together no matter what else is going on around them. As if by cue the moment ends, she lets her head graze his shoulder as she turns toward the coffee pot. He allows himself a tender glance in her direction, a breath is taken and the morning routine resumes. Attention quickly turns to the case that sits at the kitchen table, demanding to be solved. The day begins.

Box #2 - The Remote Control Incident

"Sherlock Holmes you give me that remote control right now!" She had been watching the game. Sherlock, finding it a bore, had started changing channels.

Sherlock stands over Watson, holding the remote control over his head, "What are you going to do about it Watson? I clearly have the advantage here. Height and might," he makes a face at her. Barefoot, Watson is a good deal shorter than Holmes but her anger evens out the fight.

She gets close to him, looking up into his face, "Someone told me recently that I should learn to fight dirty. The way you are standing there Sherlock, you are leaving yourself vulnerable to a well placed knee."

Sherlock quickly lowers his hand and turns away. Watson is not one for idle threats. She grabs him at the waist reaching around from the back and wrestling for the remote. As they tussle, she hears something, hard to identify at first, but as he begins shaking she realizes - he is laughing! A real laugh, not the fake ha-has he uses for effect but the guttural wheezing of his uncontrolled laughter.

"Oh my god, Sherlock, you're ticklish!" she says as she targets his sides. Feeling him wriggle and squirm as his laughter escalates makes her start giggling.

"Watson, stop! ... Stop that." He tries to stop the laughter and place authority into his voice. "I ... I ... I am not ticklish ..." Sherlock quickly gives up on authority, and moves on to pleading. "Watson stop, please ... stop." shaking with laughter, he curls into himself but Watson is relentless. Dropping to his knees, and then on the floor, she stays on top of him laughing as much as he is.

Feeling merciful, she stops. "How did I not know this?" He is now flat on his back on the floor, tears rolling down his face, both are laughing at the ridiculousness of their behavior. The laughter begins to abate as they try to catch their breath. He still clutches the remote as she lays on top of him, face to face, relaxed, happy, something that for them doesn't happen very often.

He reaches up with the non-remote holding hand to touch her face but thinks better of it and stops, gesticulating instead, "I'll strike a bargain with you," he says, "you don't tell anyone my ... you know ... weakness and you can have the remote."

She squints her eyes and considers the offer, "Mmmm..."

"And..." Sherlock quickly adds, "... And I will make you those disgusting sauerkraut laden sausages you like to eat while you watch your game." He raises his eyebrows and nods his head in expectation of her approval.

"Will you watch the game with me?" She asks with childlike innocence in her voice.

His look gets soft and his face shows how touched he is, but just for a split second, and then normal Sherlock is back, "Come now, Watson, no. I draw the line at..." She keeps staring straight into his eyes, until he breaks, "Alright, alright, I will. But no one, you tell no one about ... you know." He makes a tickling gesture with his free hand. Watson nods her affirmation. He hands her the remote and begins to sit up as she crawls off of him. Watson spots his polka dot sock covered feet and wonders. She makes a quick grab and tickles the underside of his foot, leaving him painfully giggling on the floor as she runs away. Sherlock catches his breath and calls after her, "That's it, Watson. There will be no mustard for you!"

Box #3 - The Calligraphy Incident

"Practicing your calligraphy Sherlock?" Watson says flippantly as she walks into the lock room. Two boxes full of files waiting to be reviewed sit dejected and ignored by his feet. Black ink, brushes and different grades of paper are strewn on the table in front of him.

"Hanzi, Watson! Chinese calligraphy, I assume you are familiar ..."

"Yes" she cuts him off before the lecture begins, "I was forced to learn. I'm rusty but I can read and almost write..." She looks sternly at him, "The real question here is why are you playing rather than working. That's not like you."

"Play, Watson, as you call this, is vital for the proper function of the human brain. It allows for different avenues of synapses to be forged, creative leaps to be made that can then lead to..." He keeps working as he expounds on the virtue of disciplined recreation.

"Okay, okay, I get it..." she says, trying to derail this lecture as well. "Why don't I take one of these boxes while you play."

"No, no, Watson, I'm through with this for now. Your nagging has broken my concentration." She rolls her eyes at him. He continues "I have some errands to run. Leave these case boxes for me. I'd rather you review the medical reports up in the media room."

He washes his brush in the water bowl and places it on the table. Picking up the sheet he has been working on, he is in front of her in two quick steps. Sherlock cavalierly hands her the sheet of paper face down with a surprisingly insecure and boyish look upon his face. She accepts the sheet as he quickly exits.

Watson shakes her head. Sometimes it's not worth the time to figure out what Sherlock is up to. She turns the page over. It consists of one perfectly executed character - 爱. Her face softens and her cheeks flush. The hanzi character for love - ài. Her heart beats a little faster and her eyes moisten as she walks over to the table, picks up the brush and leaves her reply on the same page. Watson grabs one of the case boxes, opens it and leaves the calligraphied sheet laying loosely atop the files for him to find. Closing the box, a half smile inches across her face and she heads up to the media room.


	2. Chapter 2

Box 4 - The Officer Starkney Incident

"You know you're being watched don't you?" Watson asked him as she stared out the meeting room window onto the floor of the NYPD main office.

He looked up from the paperwork they had been called in to complete. Sherlock followed Watson's gaze past the open blinds.

"Officer Starkney seems to have developed quite an interest in you," she said trying to mask her irritation.

Holmes looked out at the sea of blue beyond the glass pane, "Male or female?" He asked trying to figure out which "not Bell" she was talking about.

She shot him a look and jutted her head forward, letting him know who she was looking at. "She's been circling you like a shark since we came in."

Watson seemed annoyed. Sherlock couldn't understand why. "She seems harmless enough, in a blond bombshell sort of way." Watson's chair loudly scraped across the floor as she abruptly got up and went to get another stack of papers. He went back to signing forms.

The door opened quietly, and Officer Starkney came in, eyes focused solely on Sherlock. "Hi! Thought I'd check up on you. See if you needed anything, a cup of tea perhaps. I know how you Brits love your tea." She smiled at the sitting Sherlock and never broke eye contact.

Watson suddenly appeared next to Sherlock, standing between Starkney and her prey. She put an arm around his shoulders and pressed her body close to the chair, almost sitting on his armrest. Sherlock was surprised but he wasn't about to complain. Something was playing out here and he seemed to be in the middle of it.

"Sherlock is not overly fond of the station's tea. I think coffee might be better." She looked down at Sherlock to confirm her choice. He was bemused by her behavior but played along, nodding his head in agreement.

Watson turned her attention back to Starkney, "Two coffees would be lovely, thank you. We both take ours black." She gave the officer her most saccharine, insincere smile. Her display was not lost on the Officer who returned Watson's look with an equally false smile, said nothing and left.

Sherlock attempted to analyze Watson's behavior. Was he the cub to her mama bear? Did Watson dislike Starkney for reasons he wasn't aware of? Or perhaps it was a case of the queen claiming him as her consort, fending off his other suitors. The last thought made him almost smile. Whatever the reason, he found it a pleasing position to be in. He was tempted to make a smart ass remark but the kind of mood Watson was in at the moment was not amenable to humor.

Watson sat back down next to him. Starkney shortly came back in. She placed both coffee cups in front of Sherlock. He dutifully scooted Watson's cup over to her.

Officer Starkney smiled at Sherlock, "I brought you a biscuit. That is what you call cookies in England, isn't it?"

Sherlock looked at the one large cookie on the small plate that she placed in front of him. "Yes. Lovely. Thank you." He moved the plate between Watson and himself, "Here, we can nibble on this together." Joan, who had been about to give Starkney another dirty look instead gave him a smile that practically melted the chocolate chips in the cookie, confirming for Sherlock that he had made the wisest of choices. Watson broke off a piece of cookie, broke it in half. She offered one of the pieces to Sherlock, who leaned in with a smirk on his face and ate the cookie out of her hand. She placed the other piece in her mouth, while giving Officer Starkney a dismissive look. Sherlock put his head down and went back to the paperwork. Officer Starkney turned and flounced, or as close as one can come to flouncing in a police uniform, out of the room.

Box #5 The Stuck Zipper Incident

She hated to ask him for help. It made her feel foolish and vulnerable - like a stereotypical female from an old tv show. Watson couldn't get her blasted zipper to unzip. If it wasn't for the fact that it was an expensive dress she would have torn the zipper apart. She tried scooting down to get out of it, she tried pulling it off, twisting it around, but the damn thing wouldn't budge. Unfortunately for her right now, the dress fit her like a glove. Claustrophobia and panic were beginning to set in. Well, at least the silly thing wasn't trapped over her head - wouldn't that be a pretty picture.

He was in his chair in front of the fire, jacket off, tie undone, flipping through the day's mail. Sherlock was just glad to have gotten out of the NYPD banquet without incident. What was Gregson thinking requesting they attend.

"Sherlock?" Watson's voice carried a strange mix of pleading and irritation.

He looked up as she walked in, "I thought you were going to change?"

She felt uncomfortable, "My zipper is stuck." She grimaced, "It's an expensive dress, I don't want to break it. Do you think you could help?"

He matter-of-factly motioned for her to come over. He stood up and had her turn around. Watson pulled her hair forward off her back and out of his way. The zipper was stuck a third of the way down, her back partially exposed. Sherlock loved this dress on her, he'd never say so, but she was stunning in it. When he saw her pearl white skin against the shimmer of the black fabric, he loved it even more. The flickering light from the fireplace played across her back, her perfume, with subtle notes of Earl Grey, caressed his senses ... he was losing a focus.

"Anything wrong?" she asked. Watson had yet to feel Holmes touch the zipper.

Snapped into place by her voice, he answered quickly, "No, no. Just analyzing the situation." He gingerly grabbed the zipper pull, resisting the urge to drag his lips down her exposed shoulders. He tugged at the zipper genteelly. It wouldn't budge. He got closer, pulled a little harder while holding the fabric down. Still no movement. The sensual allure of undressing Watson was rapidly supplanted by the task of mastering the zipper. He got right up as close as he could to it and her.

The majority of one of his hands was now in the dress, touching her exposed skin, as he tried to push the zipper into submission. She could feel his warm breath on her back, soft puffs that made her a little weak. This was a bad idea. Watson's own breathing was getting a little irregular.

Sherlock dropped to his knees behind her, thinking that angle might help. He grabbed her by the waist in order to get some leverage. She jumped just a tiny bit at his hand and then relaxed into it. "Sorry, luv. Maybe if I jiggle it..." Intent on the task, an uncharacteristic endearment slipped past his internal editor. Watson caught it, a slight smile crossed her lips. His hair brushed up against her back. She was afraid she was going to lose control.

The zipper finally gave in! He triumphantly unzipped the dress until he saw the lace edge of her panties. His breath hitched. Without thinking, he moved towards her and kissed her softly and slowly on the small of her back. Internally she melted. He held his lips on her skin and breathed the mixture of sweet scents that was Joan Watson. "I'm sorry," he whispered into her back when he realized what he had done.

Joan's voice, husky with emotion, whispered back at him, "Please, again..."

He caught his breath, gently placed his hand around her waist and kissed her again and again moving slightly up with each small kiss until he was at her nape. She pressed her body backwards into his. Sherlock moved his hand inside the dress encircling her waist as he brought her closer and kissed her neck with increasing passion. Watson slowly turned wanting to see him, touch him ...

The knock at the door frightened both of them. They froze and pulled apart like guilty teenagers.

"God, no ... Damn it ... It's Alfredo," he sputtered, "returning some books. I told him we'd be back after ten." Sherlock cringed. Why did he tell Alfredo he could come by tonight of all nights. "We can pretend we're not home?"

Watson, tried to pull herself and the dress together. "No, Sherlock. Every light in the house is on." Her voice was still breathy and full of emotion. "It ... it would be rude." They stood apart, facing each other but staring at the floor as they talked.

"We could be rude." He retorted softly, timidly touching her hand with one finger, but knew that the moment was gone.

Not looking at him, she gave him a little shake of the head and said, "Let me get upstairs before you open the door."

Sherlock nodded. He filed away the tactile sensation of the softness of her skin, the curves of her body, the warmth ...

Loud knocking broke his reverie. He rubbed his face, swallowed away all emotion and went to answer the door.

Box #2 Reopened - The Calligraphy Incident

From the lock room, Watson called out to Sherlock in the front room, "What happened to the case boxes that were here by the table?"

Sherlock looked up from an odd gadget he'd been trying to reassemble, something he picked up at a second hand store and had been trying to reconstruct. "Someone from the precinct came by and picked them up. Turns out the husband turned himself in." Metal gears begin to whirl in his hands. "Luckily, I never did get around to reviewing the files - saved myself some time."

"Oh." Watson looked concerned. She turned to leave, mumbling quietly to herself, "I hope whoever opens the box next doesn't read Chinese."

Sherlock looked up as she exited, suppressed a smile and got back to work.


	3. Chapter 3

Box 6 - The Dim Sum Incident

The steamer was on the burner. "Mmmm... What have we here?" Sherlock entered the kitchen as Watson opened a plastic container. She looked up and tilted the container in his direction. "Dim sum!" Carefully she placed the doughy balls into the steamer basket. "My mom's dim sum. She gave me some to take with me after dinner last night."

Sherlock stood by the stove next to her watching the care with which she was performing her task. "Excellent! I came in looking to prepare myself a snack."

Watson finished placing the lid on the steamer and shot him a look of disbelief. "Uh, no. You know I love you Sherlock but I draw the line at sharing my mom's dim sum with you."

Sherlock stared wide eyed at her. Watson's expression changed as it dawned on her she had broken one of the unspoken house rules. Affection shall not be verbalized.

Sherlock rallied himself, "No... I did not know," he said quietly. He was taking her in, observing.

Watson's mouth moved but nothing came out except "I, I ... I mean ..."

He saw how flustered she was and took pity. "But at least now I understand where I rank in your affections." He crossed his arms and leaned into the counter. "First dim sum, and then me?" His tone was lighter and the look on his face signaled he was teasing her.

Relieved, she played along, "No, actually, first dim sum, then tiramisu and then you ... Wait, no, a good cup of tea and then you." He smirked and nodded his head in understanding as she smiled a close lipped smile and turned back to the steamer.

He came up close to her, tilting his head so he could whisper in her ear, "You do know that I can do things for you that would leave you much more satisfied than dim sum ever could, hmm?" Her world reeled. The combination of his proximity, the almost touch of his lips on her ear and his words left her grasping the stove. In the seconds it took her to take a ragged breath, he was gone.

Box #7 - The Incident in the Hall, and the Bathroom, and the Bedroom and the Kitchen and ...

The sound of their anger did not consist of shouting or the slamming of objects. That had come and gone. Holmes and Watson were now on to silence, deep, thick, dark, angry silence. The worst part was that neither knew what had brought them to this state. A small argument about a misplaced file had escalated into a bloody battle, old issues that had long ago been discussed and dismissed were resurrected, zombie emotions that gnawed at their brains. He was rude and mean spirited. She was a pushover, letting others walk all over her. He did not value her as a partner. She was intent on making him into some one he was not. His cereal chewing irked her. Her prattle when he was working was a nuisance. The fight was painful for both of them but like toddlers in the throes of a tantrum, they didn't know how to stop. It escalated and spiraled. Fear convulsed their true feelings into grotesque anger aimed at hurting each other lest the truth bubble to the surface and leave them vulnerable.

They sat in silence, working on a case, deep in their own files, resentful of the other's presence. Watson finally had enough. She packed up her files and let it be known that she was going to her room to work. He took a breath, twitched his head away from her and grunted a reply without looking up.

Once alone, Sherlock put the files aside and tried to rationalize the irrational events of the past two days. He convinced himself Watson was most likely ending their partnership. His emotions oscillating between anger and despair, Sherlock stared at where Joan had just been, not sure what to do.

Watson threw her files down on the floor of her room. She convinced herself Sherlock wanted her gone, there was no other excuse for his behavior. If that's what he wanted, so be it. She did not need Sherlock Holmes. Fear and loss swept over her at the thought.

Around ten p.m., Sherlock tossed in the towel. He was getting no work done. A shower would help him refocus plus it would allow him the excuse of walking past Watson's room. He pulled off his t-shirt as he made the second floor landing, looking out of the corner of his eye at Watson's half opened bedroom door. Watson had just stepped out of the bathroom when she saw his dimly lit outline walking towards her. He didn't see her until he was almost on top of her, stopping abruptly. A foot away from the other in the darkness they stood, silent, neither wanting to be the weak one, the first to say something, the first to buckle.

The lamp in Watson's room cast thin yellow light out her doorway. His posture was defensive, hers resigned. Not knowing what else to do, she turned to walk back to her room. His hand shot out and touched her arm.

"Don't leave me..." His words came out in a whispered breath.

Watson turned. He was staring at the floor, afraid to look at her, afraid of her rebuff. She slowly came back in front of him. Tears brimmed in his eyes as he waited for her response. Her heart broke at the sight of him like this. She stepped towards him, resting her forehead on his bare chest, and snaking her arms around him, she gripped him close to her and answered his whispered plea, "I wouldn't ever leave you ... ever." With each syllable her lips touched his skin like kisses.

Watson felt the hard tenseness of Sherlock's body give way to an enveloping tenderness. His arms bound her to him. Relief washed over him as he kissed the top of her head, entangled his hand in her hair, nuzzled at her neck. She relished the moment, feeling safe, wanted, locked in by his muscled arms against the heat of his chest.

He softly kissed her neck, his mouth moved slowly across her jaw line. Passion grew quickly within her. She pulled away from him, taking his head in her hands and prying him apart from her. Sherlock assumed he had done something wrong, moved too fast, assumed too much. She held his face, bit at his chin, kissed his lower lip, her voice husky with desire, "Now ..." He saw the wild look in her eye, the need and want that he felt reflected back at him. She was giving him free rein.

They combusted. Months and months of repressed feelings and longings exploded between them. His hands plunged down the back of the tiny pajama shorts that had taunted him with what they barely hid. He grabbed at her and she reciprocated. Their first time together was loud, fast, satisfying. They ended up sprawled on the hard hall floor. She cradled Sherlock's head on her breast, both breathing open mouthed, content.

"I'm crushing you," Sherlock attempted to roll off of her.

"No, I'm enjoying it." She said, as she kept him in place with her legs and her arms.

"Mmmm..." Was all he could respond. Eventually, enough blood flow to the brain was restored, that he was able to raise his head and look at her, "I was on my way to the shower ... when ... we ..." he placed little kisses on her torso. He brought his face up to hers, kissing her, forming his words upon her mouth "care to join me?"

"Mmmm..." came her answer. He helped her up, whispering all sorts un-Sherlock sounding sweetnesses coupled with tender caresses as they made their way into the dark. Their subsequent encounters as the night wore on were intimate and soul-binding and as joyous as their first. She came to understand the tattoo emblazoned on his left forearm. His love and appreciation for her only deepened with the night, he had met his match in Joan Watson. She was his equal, if not his better, in all situations.

Joan woke up alone. Her heart dropped. Sherlock was gone. Were they going to pretend last night didn't happen? Anxiety swept over her. She refused to play this game any longer. She got dressed and headed for the kitchen, stopping in the hall to pick her cami, his boxers, her shorts ...

Once in the kitchen, she found the tea ready but no Sherlock in sight. Sadness began to tug at her. Joan heard him come in but was afraid to turn around. He came up behind her. A strong arm made its way around her waist and under and up her shirt caressing her in ways she couldn't have imagined 24 hours ago. Watson relaxed as she felt his lips on the side of her face, "Morning." She responded by snuggling back into his caresses. He placed a small pink bakery box in front of her, "Tiramisu," he growled in her ear. "I'm not sure if I surpassed the dim sum in your affections last night, but I'm hoping the tiramisu has slipped down to third." He gently bit at her earlobe.

Watson turned to him, touching his face, "The dim sum will have to learn to accept defeat. I love you first, foremost, always."

"Always ..." He softly repeated her words in disbelief that she could feel such love for him. His eyes expressed more to her than he could ever say. They made their way over to the table, the kitchen floor was too cold at this hour of the morning.

Box #7 was never closed. Its contents overflowed throughout the brownstone.

New unspoken rules are now in place between them -

1) Feelings for each other are never verbalized in public, not to each other and never to anyone else. 2) Physical demonstrations of affection in public are strictly forbidden.


End file.
